When books are forbidden – paper and ink and words, despair and pain and hope, emotions and stories and life – you isolate, create divides that can't be breached. Why do we chain words?
So much power in a delicate cage of bones, waiting to be released by a voice of waves which soothes you to sleep that will morph into a blade created to shred your heart into a thousand broken shards with a line, the words splintering, spitting, exploding, out of a mouth lined with broken-glass-studded velvet, ripped and raw, bloody, torn, but healing. The words both the healing salvation and the curse. The very same syllables that dug into the soft pink flesh like burrs where they sunk deeper, opening the wounds to a boulder of pain, are the ones that offered their bodies as bandages.